


just another night

by Tilion



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Enemies, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Internal Monologue, One Shot Collection, Sad, Sad Doctor (Doctor Who), doesn't make much sense tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilion/pseuds/Tilion
Summary: "Something about the two of them was — broken hearts. Torn threads. Fragments of time and space floating through the void of history. They were bloodstained hands, silent tears, the infinitesimal pause — hardly longer than the fleeting space between double heartbeats — between the notes of a song you've heard so many times, you've fallen in love with it and can hardly stand it at the same time."***The Doctor and the Master throughout their regenerations. Some things change. Others don't.
Relationships: The Doctor & The Master (Doctor Who), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. we are the last people standing (at the end of the night)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this lovely Instagram post : https://www.instagram.com/p/B7bme7GAYPm/
> 
> All the dialogue is lifted straight from the episodes. Nothing's mine. (Except for the pain.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen and dhawan!master.

"When does this," she said softly, "all stop for you?"

She was watching him (always). He leaned against the balcony, coat collar turned up against the wind. Casual. Cocky. Looking for all the world as though everything were normal.

But this _was_ their normal. This cat-and-mouse-game, this power play, this —

"The games," she said. "The betrayals. The—" she forced the word up her tongue, swallowed its bitter taste the way she knew he always did—"the killing?"

A twitch of his lips, rueful. No, not rueful. But — bittersweet. He turned, ever so slightly, to face her. "Why would it stop? I mean—"

 _No,_ she thought. _Don't say it._

 _"_ How else would I get your attention?" 

There it was. 

There it was, the weight of his gaze, the tug in her chest — there was _them_. 

Chasing each other across the universe. Throughout history. Through flame and war and blazing love. Through everything, when they wanted it and when they didn't, the other was there.

She dropped her gaze.

His lips curled fully now. That mocking smile, ever so familiar. "When did you last go home?"

"What?" She blinked.

"I took a trip home, to Gallifrey, hiding in its little bubble universe," he went on. She thought she caught a glimpse of something in his eye, something black and twisted and smoldering and wild and _him_ —

Her hearts twisted viciously.

But it was eclipsed quickly by smooth coldness, practiced charm. "Not sure how to describe what I found," he said, tucking his hands in his pocket. "Pulverised? Burned? Nuked? All of the above."

That twist was back again. That fire, roaring in her blood. _No,_ she thought — or maybe she said it, or screamed it — _not again—_

The words were lead on her lips, poised to escape.

"Someone destroyed it." His gazed pierced hers, all levity abandoned. "Our home, razed to the ground. Everyone killed. Everything burned."

_No._

_No._

In her veins, the same black thing she'd glimpsed in his eyes burned. Thoughts swarmed her mind, _so fast too fast she couldn't breathe she couldn't school her face into a mask but she'd never truly had to around him had she and what had he done oh God what had she done what if it was her fault all over again —_

"You're lying," she got out. A rasp, a breath of desperation.

"You really should take a look." An edge of cruelty crept into his smile. The moment, if it had been one at all, died. "Oh, wait. You won't be able to. I just thought I'd let you know before I . . ."

A tug in her chest. Betrayal.

 _Ridiculous_. Why should she feel betrayed? Well, of course she felt betrayed, but — by this? By the little sentence he'd just said? By a little thing like this? They were enemies. Enemies couldn't betray each other. 

She didn't know. She needed time to _think_ —

It was lucky, then, that something about the two of them together made time stop.

Something about the two of them was — broken hearts. Torn threads. Fragments of time and space floating through the void of history. They were bloodstained hands, silent tears, the infinitesimal pause — hardly longer than the fleeting space between double heartbeats — between the notes of a song you've heard so many times, you've fallen in love with it and can hardly stand it at the same time.

They were — impossible. The impossible woman and the impossible man.

And here they were again.

And here they'd always be.

 _You know where,_ she'd told him, because of course he would. The Eiffel Tower — where else would they meet? Nowhere else in the city was like this — crisp wind whipping at them, stinging bare skin. Shadow bathing their faces, flecked with speckles of light from the city sprawled beneath them. Stars glittering like shards of broken ice, so cold and so beautiful and so eternal. 

But even stars died. Everything died. Plants shriveled, corpses rotted beneath their cold graves. Forests burned, oceans grew hollow. Lights went out, clocks stuttered to a halt. Empires fell, in bursts of bloody, terrible beauty.

And they didn't.

They went on.

Only them.

Here they were again, face to face, gazes simmering with centuries' worth of history.

Here they were again, and she thought she might die of it — of the searing burn in his eyes, of twist of emotion somewhere between her two hearts, too powerful to name. Something like anger, loathing, fire, love. Something with the kind of weight she thought might drag a planet from orbit. 

It all flitted through her head in half an instant. The history. The emotion. The everything.

And she shoved it aside. Tilted her head. Dared a ghost of a smile. "Can you hear voices?"

Footsteps, thundering up stairs. Voices, shouting orders. The thump of a gun against a uniformed thigh.

_There it is._

The familiar glint in his eye. The _oh._ The _you got me._ The _not again._ And it vanished as anger snapped into his voice: "Why are there troops coming up the stairs?"

"Oh." She folded her arms. "That's me, and one of Blighty's bravest radio operators. Very good at sending messages, particularly fake ones designed to be intercepted. Now," she added, with a hint of veiled mockery, "finish what you were saying!"

"What have you done?" he snarled, hand shooting out to grab her by the throat. A detached part of her wondered: beneath those gloves, what were his hands like? Calloused or smooth? That was the problem with regeneration, all the little details changed . . . 

_Stop._

"Sent a message to the Brits telling them how valuable you've been as a double agent . . ." His grip tightened. She gasped out, "sending Nazi information to the British.

He let her go, his boots a thumping echo of her racing hearts as he sprinted to the lift. 

"Facial perception filter?" she called after him as he vanished from view. "Very easy to jam. Now they'll see the real you. Good luck."

But even as the words left her lips, she knew they weren't true.

The real him. Beneath the masks and the gloves, the cruelty and the anger. They were real, but so was the small, pulsing heart inside of him, hidden away from the world. Something she doubted anyone would ever truly see.

Well, that was them. The Doctor and the Master. The last of their kind. Best of friends, worst of enemies. 

She could hear him down there, trying to argue with the soldiers. He'd always been persuasive, but she doubted his odds in this scenario.

The Doctor closed her eyes, blanketing her world in darkness. The lights blurred out.

Everything disappeared. 


	2. we are the greatest pretenders (in the cold morning light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy and Twelve.

_I was secretly on your side all along._

The words echoed in his head, coiled in his skull, pulsed along his veins like a third heartbeat twining with his other two.

_I was secretly on your side all along._

But were there sides? Was there a strict, definitive line between black and light, good and evil, the Doctor and the Mistress?

She'd betrayed him. He'd betrayed her. She'd lied to him, tricked him, killed for him and because of him. Centuries of bad blood stretched between them, and still, beside old, dying flowers of hatred and resentment and despair, hope bloomed.

Somehow.

Somewhere.

She'd always been the better of the two at masks. At sealing herself away, playing at being hollow. He never could quite get it right; something always leaked through the cracks. Pain. Anger. Joy.

But in those moments, as she spoke those words, he'd watched her face. Her eyes.

He'd seen a sliver of _something_ in her sea of icy, beautiful, terrible blue. 

Something like feeling.

Something like sorrow.

Something like the ache in his bones, the weariness that had settled in his limbs. The curl of _pitytrustsorrowsilencebeautyhatredanger_ all twisted together, fighting in his blood.

_I was secretly on your side all along._

What were they if not partners in a centuries-long, bloodstained dance? Bow, curtsy, step forward. A step or two to the right, the left. Forward, back. Footprints in half-moons, sweeping turns. Stiff backs and quiet eyes.

A line slashing between them — a tether. A bond.

Tying them together. Vying with their hearts to never let them drift apart. 

Twirl. Step back. Bow, curtsy, another step.

Rewind. Repeat.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Switch the music. Mix up the style. Change the beat. The time, the faces, the way they dressed and spoke and laughed and cried. It didn't matter; it never would.

_I was secretly on your side all along._


End file.
